


Dress Your Idol in Gold and Ashes

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Gilded Cage, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Religion, Sort Of, bride of primus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22457530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: The Prime is an intermediary between the planet and its God, a great honor full of rituals and mystical secrecy. Too bad for the powers that be, the new Prime is gutter trash from no lineage of note. And he's about to meet his God for the first time...Rodimus has his flaws, but if you need a mech to make a brave and reckless stand, there's no one better.
Relationships: Rodimus/Rung
Comments: 55
Kudos: 249
Collections: Tfp





	Dress Your Idol in Gold and Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by, although _very_ tonally divergent from, the fic [How to Say 'Oh Primus' Properly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516207/chapters/48690947) by RedFreyr_TheSmall
> 
> Thanks to Hollowpointheart for encouraging this project as I sound-boarded out some of the trickier concepts. Truly nothing gets written in a vacuum.

[Need a big god. Big enough to hold your love...](https://open.spotify.com/album/0pKZJj9GzcKPCS8r4IaksA)

The Prime has a lot of other titles that go with the post, which Rodimus is learning about now for the first time several weeks _after_ becoming Prime. So sue him, he had a lot of other things to worry about besides learning obscure political trivia. Right up until he’d tumbled out onto the stage with an armload of pilfered catering and knocked over the viewing case the Matrix was being held in, he’d figured the closest he’d ever get to nobility would be dumpster diving outside the hotel where some Vanguard Knight was stopping over for the night.

But along with the sweet new upgrades, apparently, the Matrix had conferred upon him such titles as “Protector of the Realm”, “Supreme Pontiff”, “Successor to the Prince of the Apostles”, and, um… “Conjunx of Primus”. 

Rodimus stands in front of the entrance to the chamber, silent guards in massive gold plating stationed on either side of the door. He’s out of place here, no matter what he looks like now. He can’t stop feeling like he’s about to be dragged off to jail by the audial.

“Remember,” the high priest says, sternly, “do whatever is asked of you, but do not let the chamber door open for any reason. No one is to come in or out except yourself. _No_ one.”

Rodimus has never taken particularly well to being told what he can or can’t do by rusty old codgers. The little Hot Rod voice in the back of his processor wants to dig his heels in just for the sake of digging his heels in. _Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,_ he’d say. _I’ll do whatever I fragging want, because I’m the fragging Prime._

Somehow he’d always figured that the Prime told the priests what to do, not the other way around. Optimus sure never seemed to let anybody tell him a damn thing. That was why he’d been so popular with the people for so many years--even when the cops and the company clerks and your landlord all seemed to be out to get you, you could look up at Optimus’ face giving its steady half-smile on the newsfeed, and you could say, _hey, at least_ _Prime would back me up._

The priest’s frown creases even more deeply.

“Remember your duty,” he warns Rodimus. “The planet’s wellbeing rests on your ability to fulfill those duties the Gods themselves have seen fit to entrust you with. Your species’ survival, your friends’ ability to feed themselves…” he trails off meaningfully.

Rodimus stiffens. One thing about being Prime, other than the rad new reformat and all the new worshipful attention, is the money. The Prime gets a stipend from the church’s treasury, for personal use. The first thing he’d done when they’d linked him up to the Primal accounts was dump the whole Quarter Vorn of funding into fuel for the starving underbelly of Nyon. Maybe a little too impulsively in retrospect, but just the thought of all the tanks he could feed-

“I got you, I got you,” Rodimus says, waving him off. “Trust me, I’ll blow his circuits. If he’s, uh. Got circuits. He does have circuits doesn’t he?”

“I assure you,” the priest says dourly, “he does have circuits. And all the rest.”

“Right,” Rodimus says. He squares his shoulders.

As the guards begin the laborious process of spinning open the locks and dragging open the doors, the priest takes him firmly by the shoulder and pushes him forward, into the golden low lighting of the chamber beyond. Even a sliver of the room glitters like nothing Rodimus has ever seen.

“Just make sure you overload in him,” the priest orders, a harsh whisper against audial. “Hold him down if you have to, just make sure it's done.”

What Rodimus wants to reply, thinking of every massive statue of the divine he’s ever seen, is “hold down _Primus?”_ , but unfortunately he’s already being pushed stumbling through the door into the chamber. The doors immediately swing shut behind him with a resounding _thud_. 

Rodimus stumbles. He reaches out to steady himself and nearly knocks over a statue that’s probably worth more than the whole neighborhood he was raised in. The ceiling is the deepest enamel blue, deeper even than Optimus Prime’s old colors, spotted with golden starbursts like the night sky of an uncivilized planet. It’s gorgeous and primeval and Rodimus can’t stop staring. He once traveled the shore of the Rust Sea on a long terrain race, and the lights over the wastes had been only a faction of this bright and clear.

“I suppose I should say welcome,” a soft voice says, with an edge of dry humor.

Rodimus startles, whirling, to find a small orange bot watching him from the sunken pit of pillows at the center of the room.

The little bot is perched on his knees amid the luxury, his spark window glowing with a low teal light. There’s something wary about him even though he’s holding his ground, not cowering or scrambling away. Rodimus has seen enough people tensing for the worst to recognize it even in someone with such a good poker face. It’s an almost familiar face, the hook of the nose, the eyebrows. He feels like he’s seen it in places before. 

Belatedly, the order of events comes together in his processor. If this is the room where Primus lives, then the bot who lives here has got to be Primus. And if that bot is Primus, then he almost certainly heard that gross little parting shot from the Priest, which means…

Rodimus clears his intake, uncomfortably, and raises his hands. Open palms, spread fingers. He’s been pulled over enough times to know how you’re supposed to do it. “Uh,” he says. “Pleased to meet you, your--um--your worship.”

Rung’s mouth quirks up in a half smile, and he visibly relaxes. “Oh, you needn’t stand on ceremony with me,” he says. “Please, call me Rung.”

“Rung,” Rodimus repeats. It’s an old fashioned name, the sounds a little unwieldy on a neo-cybex tongue. Pretty though. “Not Primus?”

Rung’s smile takes on a mirthless edge. “Rung was my name before they figured out my function,” he says. “As little as anyone likes to admit that I had a life of my own, once upon a time. I’m sure you’ll call me whatever you like, though.”

Rodimus stares at him. He knows what everyone knows about Primus, which is to say, he knows Primus is the progenitor of their species and the source of their prosperity in the cosmos. Primus is--well, Primus is a _God_ , and like any God worth his salt, he needs tending to and looking after, luxury, protection from the coarseness of common life, rites and rituals to be kept happy. The state of the God is the state of Cybertron; when Primus is pleased, the planet flourishes. The spark fields yield new births. The mines produce energon.

Rodimus came in here expecting--well, barely knowing what to expect, but definitely something more like a capricious and demanding lordling, maybe lazy and arrogant, maybe distant and unimpressed. When they told him it was going to be his job to interface with God on behalf of his species, he’d really… not…

“You used to be a person?” Rodimus asks, lost.

Rung stiffens, and then looks aside. “I suppose you could put it that way,” he says, in a dark undertone. 

Wrong-footed, wishing he could take back everything he’d said since he came in, Rodimus blurts, “If you want me to call you Rung, I can do that!”

There’s a thoughtful silence, the golden lanterns suspended from the ceiling spinning slowly above them. Rung gives him a sideways look. Rodimus can feel himself being weighed, evaluated, read. “You’re very young, aren’t you?” he asks, after a moment. 

Rodimus makes a face, dropping onto a pillow at the edge of the sunken berth. “Not _that_ young,” he says, “I’m from the Nyon hotspot you set off right before Optimus took over.”

Rung’s expressive features take on a wistful cast. “Ah, Nyon,” he sighs. “The festival was so beautiful there. Engex in the air. The colored flags hanging over the streets. A sparkling gave me a string of beads. I still have it,” he presses his palm to a seam in his side, fingers curling over it. “It took my handlers half an hour to find me, the streets were so crowded.”

“You skipped your guard detail?” Rodimus asks. That’s kind of… rebellious. A little feisty? Maybe God is actually a low key hellion. He finds himself hoping that’s true. He feels so awkward and out of place with all these stiff-aft priests and politicians. A fellow troublemaker would be _such_ a relief.

“Thirty lovely minutes,” Rung says, thumb tracing that seam. “To see the sky again, to talk to a stranger. I never leave this place, unless there’s a hotspot they want me to set off.”

Rodimus’ tank drops. “What like… I mean, because you like being here right? Not because you _can’t_ leave, right?”`

Rung’s gaze sharpens, giving Rodimus a second long, appraising look. His hand drops from his compartment seam. “You’re not the usual kind of Prime,” he says. “I thought Optimus was an odd one, but you’re even odder.”

That doesn’t sound right. Optimus was a great Prime, everyone says so. You almost couldn’t see the sky for the lanterns the night they announced his ship had been lost in that radiation storm. Unbelievable tragedy, everyone agreed, losing a starship to a storm, in this day and age.

Rung holds a hand out to him. “Help me take a bath,” he says. “That’s one of your duties, I believe?”

Rodimus nods. He allows Rung to pull him to his feet, and together they get the hot oil tap running. It’s luxurious, almost bubbling with heat, smelling like the rich perfumes of bath houses that Hot Rod was never posh enough to visit. He can only imagine that feels fragging _sinful_ on stressed joints.

The way it had been explained to him, the body of Primus is a kind of holy artifact in itself--something that could only be handled by the most sanctified caretakers, the holy of holies. There’s a kind of multilevel hierarchy to the temple that just about makes his head spin, but he’s technically at the top of it now. Other than him, hardly anybody is allowed in here. There’s a different chief priest for helping Rung get into his regalia, and one who cleans the chamber, and apparently the high priest can fill in for a Prime when the Prime isn’t available, but--yeah, they don’t trust just anybody to touch God.

Rung pops the crystal stopper out of a jar of imported oil, clear and greenish like a gemstone, and pours it into the bath. He pauses, looks over his shoulder, and sets it down on the side of the tub. Rich black oil swallows his thighs as he steps down, wading in with a careful grace. 

Rodimus is furiously trying to remember all the steps to this process he was instructed on. There’s the bath, and then you have to wipe down the seams to get the excess oil out, and then buff? Or is it wax and then buff? What did they tell him? What did they _tell_ him?

If he messes up and gets grit in Primus’ gears, he’s going to be the first Prime to get excommunicated, and oh, _hell_. Rung is watching him again.

Abruptly, unexpectedly, Rung grins at him. “Come on,” he says, reaching out with both arms, “this is the best part of the job. Let me show you.”

Tentatively, Rodimus takes his hands and steps down after him. A shudder of satisfaction immediately climbs up his spine and makes his spoiler vibrate, it’s so hot and so silky against the plating.

“There we go,” Rung says, “that’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s _hella_ ,” Rodimus immediately responds, hip deep in heaven. “I mean, um. It’s… satisfactory?”

Rung snickers, hiding his mouth behind one delicate hand. He’s pretty, Rodimus realizes, belatedly. Or, maybe not pretty. Because _things_ are pretty, and Rung isn’t a thing. That, more than anything, is making Rodimus’ head spin. God is a thing, an idol, a presence. God isn’t supposed to be a _guy._

But holy slag actually he _is_ pretty, for whatever that’s worth. The little antenna wiggles when he laughs.

“Some Primes like this part more than others,” Rung says, letting his hands go finally. “Optimus was always fastidious about it. Sentinel would put it off and put it off and then just about scour my plating off trying to get rid of the mineral build up. Very irritable, that one. I told him I wasn’t going to put off taking baths just because _he_ didn’t want to be bothered, but that’s the thing about it, the mineral build up…”

While saying all of this, Rung has been lowering himself into the scooped out seat at the wall of the tub, settling into the perfectly him-sized seat. He gives a low, sweet sigh, and his optics blink off.

“Whenever you like,” he says, inexplicably. “Nova liked to do it all in one go, but I wouldn’t mind taking it slower.”

Scrap. Rodimus stands there, furiously trying to remember what he’d been told about the bathing ritual, until Rung actually onlines one optic to look at him. In a second, both lights blink on, and Rung frowns.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “You look like you’re having a problem.”

“No, I, uh,” Rodimus says, “I have it completely under control! I’m just… looking for the…” Frag’s sake he doesn’t even know the words for those things sitting on the edge of the tub. He can’t just call them all thingamabobs and _whatevers_. He’s gonna get _exiled_ , he’s gonna get shot out of a fragging canon into the sun, and every single person on the planet is gonna laugh about it.

Rung opens his hands, just above the surface of the oil. “Why don’t you come down here and we’ll try to figure it out together, hm?”

“...Sure,” Rodimus says, and tentatively sinks down into the bath until his chest is half submerged. He lets Rung pull him closer, and then _closer_ \--he stiffens, terrified, but when Rung doesn’t say anything or do anything but hold him, he slumps into Rung’s lap. A pair of thin arms close loosely around his shoulders.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Rodimus admits, which is easier to do when he’s looking at Rung’s non-judgemental spark glass. “I _know_ I got a lecture on how to do this, but all I remember is there was a paint transfer on the instructor’s audial and I kept trying to figure out whose color it was.”

“It’s not that hard,” Rung reassures him. “I don’t know what they told you to do, but it’s just a bath. I don’t even really need help, except for the cleaning off afterward.” 

Rodimus grimaces. “Before I got prime’d, I never even _had_ a real bath. I don’t know what any of this stuff is or what order you use it in.”

“ _Never?”_ Rung echoes. “Nobility can’t have changed _that_ much. I know it’s been a while since I was last out-”

“Oh, no,” Rodimus laughs, “no, I wasn’t royalty or nothing. I’m just some nobody from Nyon in the wrong place at the right time. I’m not worth the scrap I’m made of, they used to tell me. But everybody saw me bond with the matrix, so I guess they couldn’t pretend like it didn’t happen.”

Rung freezes. “You’re not from one of the major houses?” he asks. “Not a military hero of some kind?”

Rodimus is vaguely aware that one of the benefits of enrolling in the service is that you get a chance to see the Matrix. The slew of people making visitation the day before Rodimus fell out of a curtain and royally fragged the whole government had been full of military mechs with sufficient ranking. The day he’d actually done it, though, those had been real royalty. Minor _and_ major houses.

“Not _technically_ speaking,” Rodimus says. Actually he’d tried to enlist a couple times, but he could never quite get up the money for an enlistment fee. And if you didn’t have that, you were the lowest of the low, everybody’s footrest, a scutworker till the end of time.

“...You must be very confused by all of this,” Rung says, at last. “What a different world it must be, coming into it from so far away.” 

Rodimus can’t stop himself from squeezing Rung a little bit. “You’re nice,” he says, helplessly. “Nobody’s been nice to me since I got this rotten job. It’s all just _be quiet, sit down,_ _don’t talk with that gutter accent, you’re embarrassing the primacy._ I’m trying, you know? I know I don’t listen so well, but I’m _trying.”_

Rung’s thumb pets his shoulder. “I believe you,” he says. 

Rodimus reluctantly pulls back. “I still want to do a good job,” he says. “Give me a chance to prove myself, you won’t regret picking me!”

“Idon’t have any control over who the matrix picks,” Rung says, “but you’re already doing wonderfully, as far as I’m concerned. Grab that washcloth off the ledge, won’t you? Let’s get you some hands-on practice. You’ll be a regular towersmech by the time you’re done with me.” 

The bath splashes between them. Gently, in small clear steps, Rung explains how to work the oil into his joints, how to rub the paint so that old nanites wash away into the oil without causing abrasions, and which jar to use for which kind of work. Rodimus finds himself sitting between Rung’s legs, working a soft cloth into his transformations seams, a hand splayed under Rung’s back to hold him up. Rung has an arm slung over Rodimus' back, but he’s too relaxed now to hold on very tightly.

“Mmm,” Rung purrs, as Rodimus strokes his chassis with two fingers wrapped in oilcloth. “That’s lovely, Rodimus, you’re doing so well…”

Rodimus feels his neck heat up, fuel rushing through his system at Rung’s words, and bites his lip. No matter how much it makes sense, he can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be getting turned on by this. Yeah it _feels_ like doing tactile, but it’s not, right? It’s just a bath. Rich people have servants to do this. 

Although maybe rich people’s servants don’t hold them like this…

By the time Rodimus works his way down under the surface of the oil and into Rung’s hip joints, his charge feels like it could set off a fire in this little black sea. If this were one of his friends back home--if this were one of the other urchins he used to share makeshift berths with in drainage pipes and flophouse floors--he would already be grinding himself against whoever was warm and happy enough to get his charge up like this.

He’s sure Primes don’t grind themselves on Gods like horny back alley newframes, he’s just… not sure what it is they _do_ do.

He imagines opening up Rung’s interface panel, softly rubbing oil into the tender mesh around his valve, pumping his spike, working the cloth into every inch of components he can only find by touch--he shivers. Rung stiffens in his hold, optics flickering on again, casting a quick look up and down him.

Feeling clumsy and stupid, Rodimus flashes a quick grin and then doubles down on his work, making sure not to miss a spot. He can do this. He can do this. He can keep it in his panels for a while, and then hopefully he’ll be cooled down enough to do a good job when Rung wants him later.

He'd definitely gotten an earful from the high priest about how you’re supposed to interface with Primus Himself, and even he wasn’t stupid enough to tune that one out. He came in here all knotted up and dreading what it would mean to have to satisfy Primus, warrior god, lord of lords, but now he’s just furiously preoccupied with not rutting himself against the first nice person to touch him since he said goodbye to all his friends back home. 

When he’s done down to the tips of Rung’s pedes, Rung lets out a little happy sigh and reaches up, letting Rodimus lift him out of the tub and carry him to a drying bench. The next part involves imported clay and super fluffy towels, and by the end of it Rodimus is just dumbfounded by the amount of expensive luxuries he has access to now, even if they technically belong to someone else. He can’t stop thinking about how much he could fence these for. The crystal perfume bottles alone…  
Rodimus lowers himself into the pillows. He has a vague idea that rich bots like to pile their berths with pillows like this, especially the winged ones, but it seems like whoever designed this room said _frag it_ to the berth and just doubled down on the pillows. It’s crazy soft.

Rung goes to put away all of his own things, leaving Rodimus dazed on the floor, thinking about opulence. He watches Rung with half his attention, admiring the careful way he moves. All these beautiful things, and Rung is maybe the most beautiful of them all, with his old-fashioned frame and expressive little face. But out of every beautiful thing here, Rung is the one that Rodimus can’t pick up and slip into his subspace for later.

“Well,” Rung says, turning abruptly. “Shall we?”

“What?” says Rodimus. He shakes off his greedy cloud of yearning and finds that he has no idea if Rung has been talking up until now. 

“Retire to berth,” Rung says. “Become better acquainted. So to speak.”

“Oh, you mean _frag,”_ Rodimus says. He relaxes.

Rung’s mouth twitches. “Yes, frag,” he says. 

“Sure,” Rodimus says, “I’m not doing so hot with all this political stuff, but I’m real good at that. How do you want it? I can go either way, me, I’m all kinds of flexible. I got this whole long lecture from the high priest about _material donation_ -” he makes a face, “-but there’s lots of ways to do that, I mean, not to brag but I’m _pretty_ creative. I thought you were gonna be more my size, but you’re kinda small, and I just got a lot bigger, so I’m thinking me spiking might not be the best place to start?”

Rung is half-sitting on the edge of the vanity, just looking at him, not saying anything. Rodimus starts to get nervous; he sits up straighter in the pillow pit. 

“Not to sound like I’ve thought about this too much,” he says, rushing to fill the silence, “it’s just--when they told me the Prime is supposed to keep Primus Himself satisfied and--I mean, wow, a _god_ , and I’m supposed to do that? And if you don’t overload the mines dry up? The hot spots go cold? That’s on _me_ , holy slag, so of course I’ve been testing out the new equipment between meetings and I think I’ve got it pretty well figured out, so you just tell me what you like and I’ll try to get myself slotted in there.”

Rung doesn’t reply for a moment. Finally, he says, “Is that what they’re telling you?”

“Er,” Rodimus says. 

“I’m beginning to see,” Rung murmurs. “They really didn’t care for Optimus at all. They must be very keen to have someone young and inexperienced who won’t get overinvolved.”

“Whoa hey now!” Rodimus says, lunging forward through the pillows. “I’m not _stupid!_ I’m still gonna do my job, I’m just in the middle of a major adjustment period!”

Rung’s optics flicker, reset, and then soften into a smile. “No, dear, I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. 

“Yeah, well, good,” Rodimus says. He sits back on his heels. “Nobody on the streets knows jack about how this Primal stuff works. I mean we’ve all got pocket matrixes and wishing crystals and stuff, but all this--this big stuff! They don’t tell us how this stuff works.”

“Okay,” Rung says, nodding. “Well I know quite a lot about it, as you might imagine. Why don’t you tell me what you were told, and I’ll give you the rest of it.”

Rodimus hesitates. He really doesn’t want this divine being to judge him like a disappointed creche handler. He really doesn’t want to have to take his spike out after that, either, feeling like an inadequate idiot newframe. 

On the other hand, he _hates_ the idea that maybe he’s being handled like a prop by a bunch of bossy rich slag eaters. 

“Every morning I’m supposed to come here and open up the Primal Chamber,” Rodimus says, slowly. “I’m learning the prayers for that. I bring you energon, and then I help you into your regalia. Then in the evening, I come back and help you bathe, and then I get you off, and then I close up the Primal Chamber. There’s prayer for that too. If you’re going out to do a blessing, I’m supposed to-”

“No,” Rung says, but not unkindly. “That’s not what I meant. Why did they tell you that you need to do these things for me?”

Rodimus’ mouth opens and closes, silently. “Well because you’re _God,_ right?” Rodimus says. “So if you want something, you get it.”

Rung tilts his head. “And if I wanted you to get up and leave this room, and not touch me again, would you do it?”

“I’m not doing _that_ bad, am I?” Rodimus asks, with a nervous laugh. Canon into the sun, canon into the sun…

“No, you’re doing just fine,” Rung says. “But suppose I did say that?”

Rodimus’ first instinct is to say _yeah, of course I’d go, I’m not a tool._ But then he remembers the last thing the High Priest said to him, at the door, and his fuel tank sinks to the bottom of his chassis. 

“I’m not supposed to leave without overloading you,” he admits. At the tightening of Rung’s mouth, he rushes to add, “but if you don’t want to, we can just don’t and pretend we did! I’m not a snitch, I’m not gonna tell.” He rubs the back of his neck, worrying the seam at the bottom of his helm. “I mean it’s one night, what’s it gonna hurt, right?” 

“What if I said I _never_ want you to touch me,” Rung counters, his fingers idly picking at the tassel of a perfume bottle. “Not tonight, and not tomorrow night, and not ever again?”

Rodimus wracks his processor. “But um,” he says. “What about the planet? If you don’t get charge from me, the hotspots won’t ignite. And if I don’t give you transfluid, you can’t make the energon form in the crust.”

“Interesting proposition,” Rung says, visibly unmoved. “Suppose I said I wanted you to open those doors, even so. Suppose I said I wanted you to let me out of here. Would you do it?”

“ _Let_ you out of…” Rodimus says. “You're God though. Can't you just go if you want?”

“You must have been told not to let anyone in or out, before you arrived,” Rung says, coolly. “I _am_ anyone.”

Eyes wide, fuel pump lurching, Rodimus says, “Rung. You’re here because you want to be, right?”

“It’s certainly better than the testing facility,” Rung says, definitely not answering the question. “Which is where the Functionalists had me. The Primalists are markedly the less painful option.”

Rodimus doesn’t know what that means, but he can feel the shape of it, and he does _not_ like that.

“You’re not a _prisoner_ here or anything,” Rodimus pushes, “right?”

Rodimus belatedly realizes he’s dragged himself closer, until he’s almost close enough to grab hold of Rung and pull him down if he wanted to. He realizes this because he’s halfway to grabbing Rung, like he would one of his street-rat neighbors, the language of concerned manhandling shared by all of Nyon’s underworld. Rung has definitely noticed it. He watches Rodimus’ hands for a moment, waiting for them to make a move, and then finally looks up.

“I’d love to leave here,” Rung sighs. “I’m as much a prisoner here as I ever was in the testing facility.”

“But you’re omni--omnicidal, aren’t you?”

Rung stares at him for a moment, and then claps a hand over his mouth to muffle an explosion of tank deep laughter, slumping forward as his shoulders shake. Rodimus twitches, caught between basking in the satisfaction of making someone laugh and getting defensive about whatever it was he said.

“I, um,” Rung manages, after a moment. “I think you mean omnipotent. All powerful? Omnicidal is more my, um, brother’s area.”

“Oh,” Rodimus says. His biolights flush in embarrassment. 

“No, I’m not omnipotent,” Rung says. His smile is easier now. “I can’t heal sick mechs in Tetrahex or prevent a mineshaft collapse in Tarn just by willing it. I understand the confusion, though. Even before they found me, those kinds of miracles were attributed to the divine. I think sometimes that the legacy of Primus has swallowed me whole, rather than the reverse…”

“But you’re _God_ ,” Rodimus says, struggling to wrap his head around this. “If you want to go see a festival, you should be able to go! All these people should be listening to you, not bossing you around!”

Rung tilts his head. “The realpolitik of religion often differs from the outward appearance of it.”

“But,” Rodimus says.

Rung pushes himself to his feet, frame whirring a little with the effort. “I’m sure you know how it works,” he says, his back to Rodimus. “I’m much too valuable to be allowed out in the world. Suppose I was assasinated? Wouldn’t _that_ look bad for our religious institutions.”

“I thought it was, um, the _impurity of the world_ ,” Rodimus says, feeling like a stupid kid processing his first data download again. “You’re not supposed to _like_ the world. It’s full of… muck and garbage and stuff.”

“You have no idea how much I miss muck and garbage,” Rung says, passing his hand over a trove of treasures on the vanity table. Raw pink crystal, an enamel music box, a bronze hand mirror inset with hieroglyphs. His fingers settle over a set of golden chain clips, each clip inset with exotic stones from alien worlds. 

“I love the world,” Rung says, touching a silvery moonstone. “I made it.”

Rodimus pulls a pillow into his lap and squeezes it. 

“I don’t get it,” he says. “I mean, I thought it sounded pretty cushy ‘cause I know some people back in the canals who would chop off an arm for regular energon and _any_ kind of roof, but you definitely don’t feel happy to be here.”

Eventually, Rung pushes off the vanity and comes down to him, taking a seat next to him on the edge of the pillow pit. “You’re a good bot, I think,” he says. “Don’t trouble yourself too much about the way things are. You have your responsibilities, I have mine. You can frag me now.”

Rodimus grimaces. That’s the least sexy thing has ever heard, and he doesn’t like how his array still gets warm thinking about finishing what he was too intimidated to start in the bath. It's not on the same page as his spark, which is adrift in a corona of distress.

“You don’t seem like you like it,” he says. He looks away.

Rung hums thoughtfully. “Sometimes less, sometimes more. I don’t have a lot of choice in it, so I don’t linger. Sentinel was bad. Optimus was better. And all the rest before them, they had their moments.” 

“I know the planet needs it, or whatever,” Rodimus says, feeling sick, “but I don’t want to be the guy who does that to you. Holy scrap, I _can’t_ be that guy.”

Rung is quiet for a moment. “Frankly, I’m not sure about all that,” he says. “The energon production, I’m not conscious I have any effect on. Maybe they’ve done tests I wasn’t aware of. I don’t know. But I do know why they keep me charged up.”

“...You mean it’s not for the hotspots?”

“No, it is,” Rung says. “But this planet isn’t supposed to support a birth rate as high as it’s been for the last several Primes. The church does for the government what the government wants, and the government wants more bodies for colonies.”

The lanterns above them turn slowly, with star shaped holes punched in their black metal casting constellations on the walls.

“Once they knew what I was for, I imagine they couldn’t help themselves,” Rung says. “They experimented for a little while with constructing cold and spark splicing, but doing it this way looks better to the public. It’s natural, or at least it _seems_ natural.”

He rises to his feet, gesturing at the length of himself. “It takes a terrible lot of energy to make a matrix, and it takes a matrix detonation to set off a hot spot. One use, and then it’s gone. I can manufacture them in my body, when I’m in alt, but the cost is high. On top of the energy requirement, it takes very specific materials, rare minerals, metallico.” He presses a palm to his belly, beneath his spark chamber. “At the rate they use me, if I wasn’t taking charge and transfluid from a regular donor, I would burn out.”

Rodimus stares up at Rung’s chassis, gobsmacked. 

“It’s been a few generations,” Rung goes on. “I think by now the planet takes my physical existence for granted. And I _know_ that the senate does. They don’t see a problem with any of it. As they’ll tell you, I’m in the best health I’ve ever been. I lack for nothing. Isn’t that enough?”

“But you shouldn’t be treated like that, like some kind of, of, _charge capacitor,”_ Rodimus says. “They can’t just pump you full of transfluid and wheel you out like a piece of dead machinery whenever they want sparklings!”

“My dear, they certainly can and they certainly do.”

Rodimus jumps to his feet, grabbing both of Rung’s arms. Rung startles against him, but he’s so light compared to Rodimus now, it doesn’t even shift his grip.

“That’s fragged,” he tells Rung, “that’s so _fragged_ , are you even hearing this? I’ve been starving in drainpipes and eating out of dumpsters my whole life and even _I_ wouldn’t have traded lives with you! Slag, at least I had my freedom!”

“I suppose it’s a question of exchanges,” Rung says, giving the hand on his arm a troubled look. “This is the longest period of peace and prosperity Cybertron has ever experienced. The functionists lost power generations ago, the primalists generally keep their noses out of common people’s business, alt cross-training is at an all time high… If my freedom is the cost of that, it’s not such a high price to pay, is it? One for the many?”

“No! Frag that!” Rodimus gives him a little shake. “Your life matters too! You don’t get to go anywhere, you see the same three people every day for thousands of years without a break, you don’t even get to pick the guy who’s gonna ‘face you--aren’t you _mad_ about it?”

Rung’s head bobbles with the shaking. His eyes are wide, optics bright. 

“I’m getting you out of here,” Rodimus vents, knowing it’s the truth the moment he says it. “Frag this, and frag the church. I’m busting you out.”

“ _What?”_

“Out of this building, out of this city--hell, I’ll get you off this planet if that’s where you wanna go, I’ve got money now, how hard can it be?”

 _“Rodimus,”_ Rung says, weakly.

“What else am I Prime for?” Rodimus says. “If someone needs to take care of you, _I’ll_ take care of you! But you’re not spending the rest of your life locked in a box!”

Rung grabs his forearms, tight grip, fingers trembling. His mouth is a thin pressed line. “Rodimus,” he says, again. “Even if it was possible, I can’t ask that of you. You’d be hunted, you’d be executed. Why not just-” he squeezes Rodimus, voice crackling, “-enjoy your new life, settle down... Be a friend to me?”

“I _am_ gonna be a friend to you,” Rodimus retorts. “And friends don’t let _friends_ be treated like things.” 

“I’m not,” Rung says. “I’m not a _normal person_ -”

Rodimus puffs flame from his dorsal vents, singeing a couple pillows before he can think about the consequences of his actions. “Whatever! I don’t care!”

“You can’t just _take_ me,” Rung says, with a deep, worried frown and an urgent voice. “They’ll never let me go, Rodimus. I’m too much a part of things now.”

“What, the government thinks they own you because you’re useful? Because they worked out what you’re _for?_ That’s so much hot rustwash, mech, I cannot believe you’re letting them _feed_ it to you! And if Optimus Prime just sat there and let this happen to you for all that time, then he can go frag himself too!” 

“He was-” Rung’s words get all jumbled up in his mouth, “-he did try. To do right by everyone. He wanted to make changes, I was happy to see him trying…”

“Well he didn’t save you, so now that’s on _me,”_ Rodimus says, jabbing at his own chest plate. “And I’m not gonna let you down, Rung. I’m gonna do right by you.”

Rung just stands there for a minute. And then, abruptly but in silence, his optics start leaking ribbons of light. Rodimus startles back, nearly tripping on pillows.

“I’m sorry,” Rung manages, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. “Sorry. I just. I think I forgot what it feels like to be a person...”

And then he’s really crying, hiding his face, vents wheezing and racked with shudders. It’s terrible, all this opulence and these beautiful things, and Rung in the middle of it, more wretched than anyone Rodimus has ever known.

At a loss, Rodimus, shifts from pede to pede in the pillow pit, and then he says “You, um. You want a hug?”

Instead of answering, Rung just holds out his one arm, the one that isn’t hiding his face, and lets Rodimus fold him into a tentative embrace.

His little body is so warm, from the bath and from the frantic running of his systems, as they try to prepare him for an escape or a struggle that isn’t coming. Even if you didn’t know he was ancient, you could hear it in his clunking and rattling as he sobs. 

After a moment, Rung goes limp in his grip, and Rodimus makes the executive decision to lower them both down into the pillows, where they can burrow in like a couple of urchins in a dumpster full of bubble wrap. He pets the back of Rung’s helm vaguely. _What a weird first day on the job,_ he thinks, a little stupidly.

Face buried in Rodimus’ shoulder, Rung eventually says, “If you’re really going to try this, we need a better plan than just ‘bust out’.”

Rodimus brightens. “Okay,” he says, “I could give the planning thing a try.”

“Some of the mechs on guard detail might be sympathetic,” Rung says, like he can barely bring himself to hope. “Jazz is--well you’ll see, he’s not the type to be cowed by societal convention. A few others… none of the current priests, at least, none of the ones I know.”

“Sure,” Rodimus says, psyching himself up to start feeling out the staff around here. “I know some guys back home who’d kick my aft if I _didn’t_ ask them for help.”

Rung lifts his head up just enough to give a little quirk of the eyebrow. “Really?”

Rodimus thinks of the way Nyon all tangles together like one enormous dysfunctional family, indomitable and poor and fiercely proud. Families are for rich mechs, nobles with their minor and major houses, but the underworld of Nyon is as tightly bound as any house of lineage. 

If Drift hasn’t already blown to the winds since Rodimus left, for sure he’ll be the first in line to break Primus out of a prison engineered by the _restrictive hierarchy of organized religion._ It’ll probably be the greatest day of his life. Rodimus is already smug about it.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re part of a family now, babe. And Nyon looks out for family.”

Rung reaches up and tangles his coppery fingers with Rodimus’ golden ones, the two of them together like licks of flame frozen in time. “Rodimus of Nyon,” he says, softly, “I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

Rodimus flashes his brightest grin, showing off the dentae, whole and shining where the matrix healed over his old cement-packed cracks. “That’s ‘cause there ain’t nobody like me,” he says.

“No,” Rung says, stroking his hand with a slender thumb. “No, I doubt there is.”

The cut-out shapes of stars cast constellations on the walls of this gorgeous prison, spelling out the route of a map to freedom that Rodimus can’t read yet, but he plans to learn.

He doesn’t worry about the danger, or the consequences, or the money he'll be saying goodbye to. People keep telling him he’s the conjunx of Primus now, and conjunxes? They’re forever. So it doesn’t matter what kind of person Rung is, normal or not. What matters is he’s a person, and he’s Rodimus’. 

So that’s fine, then.


End file.
